The Mysterious Three Part 16

"No. I didn't ask her. She was winnin' the night I saw her. I never saw such devil's luck--never. I lost over a thousand on the week, so I thought it time to pay my hotel bill--what?"

The three of us made the tour of Tattersall's together, admiring, criticising, fault-finding. Among Thorold's horses was the mare I had ridden on that last day I had been at Houghton. What a long time ago that seemed! I felt tempted to make a bid for her next day, she had carried me so well.

Then I thought again of my well-beloved. What an extraordinary girl she was! Ah! how I loved her. Why had she not told me that she meant to go to the Riviera? Why--

An idea flashed in upon me. I was getting bored with the mad hurry of London. This would be a good excuse for running out to the Cote d'Azur.

Indeed, my chief reason for remaining in town had been that I believed Vera to be there still, either in hiding for some reason of her own, or, what I had thought far more likely, forced against her will by that blackguard Paulton to remain in concealment and keep me in ignorance of her whereabouts.

Instead of that she was "on her own"--how I hate that slang phrase--at Monte Carlo `winnin' a fortune,' as Lord Logan had put it.

"A strange world, my masters!" Never were truer words spoken. The longer I live the more I realise its strangeness. When I arrived at Monte Carlo by the day rapide from Paris, rain was pelting down in torrents, and a fierce storm was raging. Wind shrieked along the streets. Out at sea, lightning flashed in the bay, while the thunder rattled like artillery fire. I was glad to find myself in the warm, brilliantly-lit _Hotel de Paris_, and when, after dinner, I strolled into the fumoir, it was so crowded that I had difficulty in finding any place to sit.

Among the group of men close to whom I presently found myself, conversation had turned upon the pigeon-shooting at Monte. From their remarks I gathered that an important event had been decided that day, the Prix de--I forget what, but the prize appeared to be a much coveted cup, with a considerable sum in added money. This had been won, it seemed, by a Belgian Count, who had killed twenty-seven pigeons without a miss.

"_Mais c'est epatant--vraiment epatant_!" declared an excitable little Frenchman, as he pulled forward his chair. He went on to explain, with great volubility and much gesticulation, the difficulties that some of the shots had presented. This Frenchman, I gathered further, had backed the Belgian Count every time from his first shot to the last, and had in consequence won a lot of money.

Time was when trap-shooting appealed to me. I have shot pigeons at Monte, at Ostend, and here in England at Hurlingham at the Gun Club, also at Hendon, but it has always struck me as being a cold-blooded form of amus.e.m.e.nt--its warmest supporters can hardly call it sport. Not that there is more cruelty connected with pigeon-shooting than with game-shooting, as some would have us believe. Indeed, I have always contended that trap-shooting is less cruel than game-shooting, for pigeon-shooters are one and all first-rate shots--if they were not they would lose heavily and soon give up the game--with the result that the greater proportion of the birds shot at are killed outright, a thing that cannot be said of game, where one's tailor sometimes takes out a licence.

But why is it, I wonder, that pigeon-shooters, considered collectively, are such dreadful-looking men? I have often wondered, and I am by no means the only man who has noticed this feature of pigeon-shooters.

Glancing carelessly at the crowd seated near me now, it struck me forcibly that I had rarely set eyes on such a dissipated-looking set.

Men of middle age, most of them, obese, fat-faced, with puffy eyes and sagging skin, they looked capable of any villainy, and might well have been addicted to every known vice.

One man in particular arrested my attention. His age was difficult to place. Lying, rather than sitting, back in a softly-padded leather chair, with crossed legs, and with one arm hanging loosely over the arm of the chair, he talked in a singularly ugly voice between his yellow teeth, which clenched a long cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.

"Another twist, and he would have cleared the boundary," he was saying to his companion, a good-looking English lad of five-or-six-and-twenty.

"The second barrel cut him to pieces; it's extraordinary what a lot of shot a blue-rock can carry away. How did you come out on the day?"

"Badly--shocking," answered the young man. "I backed the guns to start with, and you know how badly the whole lot of you shot. Then I started backing the bird, and you began to kill every time. My luck was out to-day--dead out."

I saw his friend smile.

"Dago was the one lucky man this afternoon, I should say," the first speaker remarked presently. "But there--he's always lucky."

Instantly my interest was aroused. "Dago!" Could it be--surely--?

"Yes, he's lucky enough," the other answered. Then, after a pause he added: "That's a man I can't stand."

"Can't stand? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. The fellow gets on my nerves. How does he live?

Have you any idea?"

"You mean, what is his source of income? I'm sure I can't tell you.

But for that matter, how do half the men we meet here at Monte manage to live? It would not be well to ask. They have money, and that is the main thing. All we require is to transfer to our own pockets as much of it as we can."

The young man looked at him thoughtfully for some moments, then said--

"Yes, I suppose so."

The tone in which he spoke was ironical, but his companion didn't notice it.

"Do you know Paulton well?" the elder man asked himself.

"As well as I care to. Why do you ask?"

"Only just out of curiosity. Many people form an unfavourable impression of him when they meet him first, and afterwards they come to like him."

"That's the reverse of my case," answered the young man quickly. "The first time I met him I rather liked him, I remember. But after I had met him several times--well, I changed about him. He may be all right!

I dare say he is. I suppose our personalities are not akin, as I have heard some one put it."

"He's a fine shot."

"You are right. He is. I thought he would win the cup to-day."

"The bird that knocked him out was badly hit. If he had killed it, he would have won second money."

The young Englishman lay back, stretched himself, and yawned. "I'm getting fed up with this place," he said at last. "I shall get back to England in a day or two. How long shall you remain here?"

"It depends--partly on Dago. We're running a sort of syndicate together, you know--or probably you don't know. He has to see one or two men here about it before we leave."

"What sort of syndicate?"

"I am afraid I'm not at liberty to tell you--yet. I can tell you this-- though, we have a lady interested in it, a very pretty girl. That ought to appeal to you," and he laughed.

"Have I seen her?" the young man asked, looking at him curiously.

His companion pondered. Then suddenly he exclaimed--

"Why, yes--of course you have. She was playing trente-et-quarante the other night, and nothing could stop her winning. She won a maximum and went on and on, simply raking in the money. You and I were there together. I am sure you must remember."

"_That_ girl!"

The tone in which he uttered these words surprised me. Could it be Vera of whom they had been speaking? According to Lord Logan she had won heavily at trente-et-quarante. And if so, who was this man, this partner and friend of Dago Paulton's? And what could the secret syndicate be in which both were interested?

I had my back to the door, and the middle-aged man who spoke between his teeth and was lying back in the lounge chair was almost facing me.

Suddenly, a look of recognition came into his eyes--he had seen some one behind me enter, whom he knew.

"Ah, here is good old Dago," he exclaimed. He held up his hand and signalled to him.

I had fitted a cigarette into my holder, struck a match, and lit up slowly, while I composed my thoughts. Now I half-turned to gaze upon this man of whom I had heard so much, and was now to see for the first time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

IN THE WEB.

I held my breath.

I should have recognised him at once from the panel portrait, though he looked some years older than when that photograph had been taken.